We’ve got to have trust, Shane. That’s what Tim said to me on Tern Island. The first time I concealed Bram from him, it was because I feared he’d see me as weak. He knew me now, though, and respected my skills regardless of the mistakes I’d made.

I could tell him. Reveal Bram was Abe here and now and stand aside while Tim and Mac took every shred of information I possessed to the NYPD and the neurocriminologists who specialized in the anatomy of violence. But that information was tangled up with my life, and my family’s, too, and where would that leave them? Once Blake Bram’s identity was made public, their connection to him would be trumpeted across the country. My parents, Felicia, Crissy, and Doug would be linked to Bram’s sadistic crimes for all eternity.

Maybe that’s exactly what Bram wanted. Maybe this was a test. I was a criminal investigator; Bram knew how ashamed I’d be of our bond. I was terrified of where honesty might lead. But enlisting the help of my peers might put me at an advantage, and didn’t I need any leg up I could get if we were going to find Trey alive?

Yes, Tim, I thought. We were as close as two kids can be. I knew Abe Skilton loved Power Rangers and, later, grunge music, and that he’d sooner eat dirt than mayonnaise. I’d comforted him when he asked why his family couldn’t be more like mine, encouraged him when he decided to convince his parents they should reconcile. Together, we’d walked all the way to the factory where Brett worked, hoping to talk Abe’s dad into coming home. Good and bad, we shared everything.

Don’t overthink it, I told myself. Do what feels right.

“Tim—”

“Sorry.” He shook his capped head. “Christ, what a horrible thing to say. Of course you weren’t friends. The guy’s a goddamn monster, and probably always wa—”

Tim stopped walking. Stood stock-still, and stared straight ahead. As I stumbled to a halt and the crunch of dead leaves broke off, I heard the voices, too. They were coming from a few hundred yards up ahead. People were calling to one another. It was the sound of a commotion. Tim and I exchanged a glance and broke into a run.

Not far from where we’d been walking, the tree line came to an abrupt end at a small clearing. Low fence posts connected with chain encircled an informational sign similar to others we’d seen along the trails. “What is this place?” I asked, craning to see over the searchers’ heads.

“It’s a memorial for some of the soldiers who died during the War of 1812. The Battle of Cranberry Creek,” Tim said. “It’s a gravesite.”

Bogle, his height an advantage once more, had elbowed his way to the sign and was urging the civilian searchers to step back. Tim and I pushed through the crowd, picking up Mac along the way. I felt my lips shape around commands I ached to utter—out of the way, secure the area. It was Tim who was in charge now, so I let him do the talking and hung back. Blood rushed through my ears as he rushed forward.